JAG Noir - Murder In The Rose Garden
by flaunt
Summary: What would JAG be like if it was film noir, and weird. One of my most favorite fics I've ever written (or co-written). Originally 3 parts, but compiled as a one-shot for the very first time ever. If you enjoyed it, feedback would be great. Thanks.


**JAG NOIR - Murder in the Rose Garden**

Summary: Humor/Mystery/Shipper Harm & Mac. JAG - if Bogie & Bacall were in it, and happy pills were involved in writing it.

Disclaimer: See here, youse. JAG is the property of Belisarius Productions, CBS and Paramount Television. If ya know what's good for ya, youse'll just fergeddaboutit.

Authors' Notes: Originally written in 1999. This is the story as it was published way back when. To fully enjoy JAG Noir, be sure to read outloud (hardboiled accents encouraged). Also, be sure to have a Ta-Da-Dum sound F/X whenever you see the word "trouble". Enjoy.

* * *

Rabb's office, JAG HQ  
Washington

It was a dark and rainy morning when the door to my office swung open.

I gazed up a pair of long, long, long legs, which reached right up into a green Marines uniform. Her short, dark hair glowed as brightly as her chevrons.

With a voice like granite coated whisky - the type that shouldn't come with a pink umbrella but does anyway, a dame unlike any other dame, spoke to me.

"There's been a murder. I think you should look into this. I think it would be worth your while."

She could curl a man's tongue around his tonsils, and make him gargle. That was the kind of woman and Marine she was.

"How's it gonna be worth my while, sister?"

"You'll know when you start, sailor." She turned on her heel, legs longer than a Texas mile. Then she turned her head and said, "And I'm not your sister, least that's not what men usually tell me."

With that, she was gone. I sat there. There was a clap of thunder and a flash of lightning. In that order. That's when I realized something was wrong. That's when I realized all this meant "trouble".

It was going to be a wet start to an otherwise soggy day. I reached for the drink on my table but I hesitated. I knew there would be hell to pay for the price of this one drink. But sweet Jesus, this was the only thing that would get me through this day. I am not a strong man. I am not a forgiving man. I am a Naval Officer.

And I needed this drink... badly. So I reached out and encountered the smooth surface of a Starbucks' latte. The caffeine was going to keep me up all day, just like a bottle of bad Viagra.

I decided that the dame was worth investigating. Then, I decided that maybe I'd better investigate the case as well.

oxoxoxo

I knew I had to start my investigation at the one place where information flows from the tightly sealed lips of a newborn rosebud. I'm a JAG lawyer, I don't always have to understand what I say.

It's enough to know that if I was going to get anywhere, I would have to break a few legs. Maybe bloody a few noses. And if things got really bad, I would have to get down and dirty and do my impersonation of David Hasselhoff. I always hope that it doesn't have to come to that.

The door in front of me was heavy. As heavy as the Yeoman. I knew because I'm good at guessing weights at County Fairs. But, that's just the kind of guy I am.

"Tiner-"

The Yeoman looked up at me. His big goo-goo eyes were full of questions. Four questions to be precise. And in no particular order, they were:

'You looking for the Admiral?' 'You want me to buzz him?' 'How do you keep your uniform so dazzlingly white?' and 'Do you use Tide?'

I pinned him with a steely glare. I knew he'd have all his answers in that one look.

Tiner's face broke into a huge grin. It was unsettling. So many teeth, such a small face. He answered, "Ah... I always thought it was Tide."

Obviously, my steely glare needed some work.

We were interrupted by the buzz of the intercom and a muffled voice that gruffly said, "Tiner, get Commander Rabb in here ASAP."

oxoxoxo

Chegwidden's office, JAG HQ  
Washington

As I was being briefed by the Admiral, I realized this case was no ordinary murder. I wasn't going to find a jealous spouse - the victim was not sexy, or a greedy business partner - the victim was last employed by the Navy, and we haven't made any money there since '65. 1865. There would be no smoking gun - the victim was stabbed to death. And finally, there didn't seem to be a motive - the victim was now a White House intern.

Why? Was she killed to keep her mouth shut?

My mind wandered. It took a round-trip ticket but missed a stop and ended up in Harlem. There's nothing worse than being a white sailor in Harlem.

"Rabb... Rabb..."

I stopped thinking about the Village People and was jerked back to reality. "Yessir?"

"Now, I want you to keep your nose clean, do you hear me? This is a very sensitive case and all eyes are on you. I personally will be keeping an eye on this case and I'm keeping an eye on you."

At that point, I was glad that Chegwidden had both his eyes. But a part of me was sorely tempted to go in the opposite direction of the casefile, just to see what would happen. But my momma never raised no dumb sailors and I said, "Yessir."

"Dismissed." barked Chegwidden. I left then but with the casefile burning itself into my hand, I knew that this meant "trouble".

oxoxoxo

Rose Garden, White House  
Washington

It was almost noon by the time I got to the crime scene. There were no reporters or photographers. I was glad because I had not shaved. There was, however, Secret Service all over the place. I had to get closer to the body but not with these G-men sticking like white on rice. I needed a diversion, a distraction of some kind.

Then, like an answer to a prayer, 'long legs' appeared. The dame was back. Actually, this was hardly surprising... since she drove us here. Sarah Mackenzie, Mac - the dame.

"Hey, you're gonna help me out here."

"Yeah? And why should I?" she asked.

"I think you stand a lot to gain from this, and who knows... you might even like it."

She purred. Well, it was more like a grunt but she's a Marine. Who could tell?

I continued. I cocked an eyebrow. "I might even say please."

I like the dames. I like them very much. I like them better than dancing with myself. And this dame - this 'Mac', was built like a brick hothouse in a steamy dockyard like a long cool drink of water on a sweltering summer day. She was swell, real swell.

Right now, she was working 'swell' all round that rose garden. I remembered that day, so long ago when I first laid eyes on her in this very garden. Of all the rose gardens in all the White Houses in the world, she had to walk into mine. Well, the President's actually but it's an election year.

The dame was leading those G-men away. I made my move towards the body. The reports had been right, she sure wasn't sexy. Not dead and facedown in the mud anyway. Now 'Jello', that would have been classy.

I searched the body. I found a can of Mace, a kitchen knife, brass knuckles, throwing stars, a bobby pin and a bib. Nothing out of the ordinary. Just normal accessories for a White House Intern.

She had been stabbed with a ballpoint pen. Upon closer inspection, I recognized the crest. It was from the White House souvenir shop. I always knew those things were dangerous. You go in, just to have a look and before you know it, you've got a mug, T-shirt and commemorative plate with a picture of Pat Nixon. Nothing eats away at a man's soul like a commemorative plate with a picture of Pat Nixon. I have two.

I resumed my search of the non-breathing, non-sexy corpse.

She wasn't breathing.

She wasn't sexy.

She'd been stabbed with a ballpoint pen.

Beyond that, my work here was done. But my instincts were on full alert. There was something wrong. Something amiss. That's when I realized there was something stuck to my shoe. My other shoe. That's right.

There was a scrap of paper. And a matchbook. And a cigar butt. And there was lipstick, on all of them. What worried me was, it was in three different shades, which could only mean one thing, we were looking for a serial lipstick wearer.

This could only mean "trouble".

oxoxoxo

JAG HQ  
Washington

I needed answers for these clues and I needed them yesterday. I wish I had used FedEx. But it was alright because I had someone on the inside, someone who could get me the answers I needed. I called for Lt. Bud Roberts to meet me in the head.

Two minutes later, an eager, stocky man made his way to the meeting place. He looked around nervously, as would any stoolie. He checked for legs in each stall. He made his way to the urinal next to mine and looked over his shoulder constantly.

"Hey, take it easy Bud. No one's gonna know what I need you to do." I said.

He shook his head, "No sir, it's just that I can't pee when there are too many people in the room." He went on to prove his point.

After washing our hands, I passed all the clues to him. I had made a note that the matchbook was from a bar named McMurphy's and that the partial writing on the torn scrap of paper spelled out "mac- mic-". There was something faintly disturbing about this but I couldn't quite put my finger on it.

"Listen Bud, I need you to check out the lipstick and any prints you might find on the evidence. Call me at home & then we can meet in an alley somewhere."

"Yessir. But shouldn't I share this information with Colonel Mackenzie?" Bud started to sweat profusely. The mirrors in the head started to fog up.

"Well, Bud. No... we don't. Not until we've made sure that these clues mean something. Because things could get bad, and dames like her, they don't deserve bad."

"Dames, sir?"

"Dames..." I answered.

oxoxoxo

Rabb's Apartment, North of Union Station  
Washington

It had been a long day. And it was still raining. It would mean that I would have to get out of my wet clothes. But I was more tired than a two-tailed dog with fleas. I'm a JAG lawyer, I don't always have to understand what I say.

I had another stiff cup of coffee. I put some music on. I started to strip. I thought I would never feel clean again. Perhaps if I started stripping for cash. Then the phone rang and it completely threw me off my rhythm. I wasn't happy.

"Rabb here." I barked into the phone. It was almost a yelp.

A slithery voice came over the line, "Yes... I know. That's why I called you."

"Right... but maybe that's just what you want me to think." I countered suavely.

"Yes... but if I really wanted you to think that, I would have said, 'yes... I know. That's why I called you.'" Replied the cryptic caller.

In the face of such insurmountable logic, I knew I was beat. "Right. Ok. Who is this and what do you want?"

"Who I am is not important, Commander Rabb. But what I can do for you, just might be."

My gut lurched and I went still, "Look, if it's about low-risk investment bonds, I know what my options are. So you can just-"

The voice cut through, "Listen. Today you went to a garden and you found a body. So far, so ordinary. But here's where it gets strange. You also found three shades of lipstick. Am I good or what?"

"If you were really good, you'd tell me whodunnit."

"If I did, this would be a really short story." The voice countered.

I had to admit, the voice had a point. But you couldn't blame a man for trying.

"What do you know about this? Who are you anyway?" I asked.

"The worm sleeps tonight. Or he will if you don't get yourself to McMurphy's ASAP. Be sure to look for the Japanese." With that, the line went dead.

The back of my neck started to itch. I was getting one of my 'feelings'. Call it instinct, call it a hunch - call it dandruff. It all meant one thing - trouble.

oxoxoxo

McMurphy's Bar  
Washington

The gin joint was open. Just the way I like it. I walked in the doors and was immediately enveloped in the smell of stale smoked fish. It hung in the air. The fish, I mean. That helped explain the smell.

I found a place by the bar. I tried to sit but that meant finding a stool as well. So I just leaned over and ordered a drink.

By the time my drink arrived, I realized it was someone else's. I knew this because I don't use mauve lipstick. I prefer puce. That's when I had a good look around the place.

That's also when I saw the dame. But she wasn't alone.

It struck me as odd that I would find her there. She drank tonic water with a twist of lime. You could get that at any 7-11, so what was she doing in a bar? A bar that served drinks the customer didn't order.

I put it down to the goon she was with. His name was Mic and he was beefy, dark and really getting on my nerves. Why? Because he was wearing the same outfit as me. And because he was with Mac - the best game this side of town.

I waited until the goon had to go to the little boy's room before I ambled over. I made sure the dame saw me. She seemed surprised to see me there. Maybe it was because she had something to hide. But dressed as she was, I couldn't even begin to guess where she'd hide it. I fixed her with a steely glare.

"Oh, hello sailor." She laughed nervously. "What's up?"

Lots of things sister, but I couldn't talk about it in polite company.

I sat myself down. I took my time and then my pulse, before answering. "Oh I just wanted to thank you for your help in the Rose Garden this morning. I found... some pretty interesting things. Like did you know that a pine tree is a perennial?" I paused to see how she'd react.

She didn't. So, I continued. "So, what's going on between you and Mic? Been writing any secret code letters recently?"

She raised an eyebrow. I waited for her to put it down again. It seemed like ages before she did and I marveled at her strength. "Are you jealous, sailor?" she asked coyly. I suppressed the urge to throw water on myself to cool down. A glass of water wouldn't do it, a hose on the other hand...

The goon decided to come back at this moment. I caught the dame's eyes and held them for awhile - they were warm and round. Then the moment was gone as Mic took a seat... right in my lap. Ordinarily, I'm a hospitable kind of guy, but when you start using my lap as a deckchair and you're not wearing a bikini, I start to take offence.

I stood up and unloaded 200 pounds of untrained goon-flesh onto the floor. I had to hand it to him though, he had pretty good reflexes and managed to land on his head. Best place to land in his case. He rose and faced me.

"Hey buddy, what's the big idea? Can't I take a lady out for drinks without you hanging around all the time? What's wrong with you? You wanna take a long trip off a short pier or something?" Mic flexed his eyebrows for emphasis on that threat.

"Look," I said, "I don't want any trouble. I was just talking to the dame about work. You know what that is, don't you? So, I suggest you stop getting yourself worked up about all of this..."

The goon moved his face right up to mine. It wasn't very comfortable but I figured he could use the social life.

"Let's take this outside," he grunted before turning and walking out of the bar.

I looked back at the dame. She didn't seem too worried. And why should she? It wasn't her who was about to get her face ground up into a pulp. I shrugged carelessly at her with the charming little-boy smile I use so well. Then I looked around for a back door. There wasn't one. Just a hibachi.

I sighed and followed goon-boy out the door.

oxoxoxo

Outside McMurphy's  
Washington

By the time I got out there, Lover Boy Mic the Goon was ready to roll. He had spit, pouted and scratched himself in preparation. He threw a battle cry at me. "Put up your dukes, deckhand!"

I tried to accommodate him but my dukes were at the cleaners, together with my counts, barons and various minor royalty. I called back, "A-hem... can I just kick your ass, instead?"

He seemed to take this the right way and started straight for me, his barrel chest chugging like the Santa Fe Railway.

I made like a tunnel and he went right past. Those years of doing step-aerobics sure paid off. He didn't know what hit him. Basically, because nothing did. I would have but like I said, "Mister, once you make like a tunnel, you stay a tunnel."

It wasn't my intention, but Mic had run right past me and into a brick wall. You would have thought he might have seen it coming. But then, you know those brick walls - they move so fast - like WHOOOSH.

Anyway, he was lying flat on his face and out for the count. I never like to get dirty in a fight but I can learn to like it when winning is this easy.

Then suddenly, a shot rang out. At first I thought it might have been my cell phone but then I realized that I don't know how to use one. My quick reflexes threw me to the ground. I immediately thought of suing for assault but then my reflexes would probably plead involuntary spasm. No-case.

I didn't get up immediately because I didn't know where the shot had come from. Also, the ground was kinda nice and damp and I hadn't had a date in ages. And, there was a mesmerizing reflection in the puddle by my nose.

It looked like... it might have been... it faintly resembled... a neon worm. A dancing, neon worm. I tilted my head just so, to look up at the sign from which the reflection came and there in bright pink neon was the logo of the "TOKYO TEQUILA Karaoke Bar". Could this be what snake-voice meant about the 'worm' and the 'Japanese'?

Nah.

But I thought I would investigate anyway. After all, it wouldn't be a total loss - I do a great Michael Jackson.

oxoxoxo

The Tokyo Tequila Karaoke Bar  
Washington

Noise hit me with all the G-force of flying a Tomcat through the Hudson Tunnel. At least, I think it was noise. It was too noisy to make out. It could have just been white sound but I couldn't tell.

I made my way surreptitiously to the songbooks. I knew I wouldn't fit in well with the crowd there. Everyone was Japanese or White House interns or alleged murderers. It was a blend of humanity that makes me glad to be alive. Especially since I had been there 5 minutes and no one had attempted to interest me in a puffer fish sushi yet.

I smiled at one of the waitresses. She was a sweet little thing. About 4'11" without the heels. With them on right now, I had to look up to order my drink and my song. She was a cutie alright... I could tell from her navel.

"Tell me sister, anything interesting ever happens here?" I asked with a hint of menace that conveyed I could be as mean as the next customer.

"Mister, everything's always interesting here. If you got $15 more - you could get x-treme karaoke. Where you sing without the little ball pointing out where you are. It doesn't get anymore exciting than that." She said all this in an infomercial spokesperson voice. It was strangely convincing.

"Do you remember anything happening, say, about 2 nights ago?" I tried again.

"Well... there was the alien invasion, the Young Republican's Coalition meeting and the all-night wet T-shirt contest. Oh yeah... and then there was that shouting match between that guy from TV and one of those White House people. Some say she had it coming..." the cutie with the platforms added with a shrug.

My ears pricked up at that last sentence. A lead? Finally. Then again, it could have been the rendition of "My Momma's Too Good For You" in a high C that was causing my ears to bleed. Whatever it was, it was a sign and that was good.

"Tell me more about this fight."

"Well... the guy from TV I can't help you with. I really don't know who he is. Maybe an actor, maybe Speaker of the House, most probably both. The girl was the one in the news today. She was teasing him something awful about his singing. But you ask me, no one should even try 'Achy-Breaky Heart' without prior medical examination." The waitress gave me a knowing look.

"Anything else you can tell me? Anything about the victim?" I tried.

"Well, she showed him up by singing "Makin' Whoopee (And Other White House Nookie)" real well. She had a set of lungs on her, that girl. Listen, you gonna talk all night or are you gonna get something to drink?" she hinted none too subtly.

"OK, get me a scotch on the rocks," I smiled warmly at the waitress. "Don't be stingy."

"I never am," she flirted back. "That's why I'm no bartender." She threw me a wink.

I wasn't quick enough to catch it and the wink floated to the floor. I bent down under the table, pretending to pick it up because offending the wrong type of people could put a premature end to breathing. And I was fond of breathing.

That's when I found something real interesting. A songbook lying under the table. It looked like it had seen better days and should be enjoying early retirement. Its dog-eared pages flapped an accusation as I brought it up to the light. With the instincts of a finely-honed bloodhound, I immediately turned to the "K" section. But since my instincts were not those of a bloodhound, I ended up on "M" instead.

This is when luck, fate or destiny stepped in because there was a corner torn out of the "M" section. A corner that looked strangely familiar. So familiar that it matched exactly the scrap that I found in the garden earlier. Mentally, I pasted the pieces together. I swore softly because I didn't bring any glue. I came up with the match to the mysterious "mac- mic-" It was the two songs "Mac-arena" and "Mic-key, You're So Fine". Hmmm... "M" was also the beginning of the song "Makin' Whoopee". It just didn't make any sense.

My eyes scanned the remainder of the page. There was nothing there except innocuous hits from the past. I flipped the page over. Usually I buy 'em drinks first but time was not on my side right then. I could make out the faint outline of some words. They seemed to spell out an address. I memorized it. It wasn't hard. It was the address for the local Wal-mart.

And it started to smell like "trouble".

oxoxoxo

Rabb's Apartment, North of Union Station  
Washington

The first thing that woke me up was the unnaturally loud clanging of my doorbell. Actually that was the second thing that woke me up, the first being the large lump in my boxers. I always stuff my socks down my underwear when I am working on a heavy case. That way, I always know where they are.

I looked over at my bedside clock. It was 3am.

I slid out of bed and reached for my gun. It was a long reach because my gun was on the kitchen counter-top. Finally, armed with my trusty .38 - I threw open the door and took aim.

Her silhouette hit me like a grand piano thrown off the top of the Capitol Dome. She was curved and full and ripe and I was suddenly hungry for a juicy Virginia peach or maybe a nice pecan pie.

"Hey sailor, is that your gun or are you just happy to see me?" she asked nonchalantly as she walked past me into my apartment. I looked out into the doorway. All I saw were other doors. I closed mine so it wouldn't feel left out and turned to the dame, my mind full of questions.

"It's 3am, Mac -," I started.

"It's 3:04 actually," she smiled in response.

"Yeah, yeah... well, what's going on? Why are you beating a path to my door at 3:04 in the morning? Another murder?"

"No. Some court-martials and petty espionage cases but no new murders. I... I came over to apologize." She looked damn uncomfortable now and I wasn't going to do anything to make it easier on her.

"Yeah? Well, let's hear it then."

Her eyes narrowed at the words, "If you're going to be like this, then perhaps I should just save it." She started to walk back to the door. My hand snapped out to grab her arm as she went past. She let out a gasp.

"Sailor, remove your hand or lose it," she said through gritted teeth. She seemed to be breathing heavily. I suddenly realized that in addition to hearing her breathe, I could also actually feel it. My hand rose and fell with each breath. What can I say? My aim was never really very good. I guess instinctively I just went for a spot I could get a good grip on.

I loosened said grip because I was starting to have breathing difficulties as well. I had had bronchitis as a child and I really didn't want another asthma attack. Not here, not right now.

"I'm sorry," I said. Perhaps I meant it, perhaps I didn't. But I didn't want the dame to leave angry. I wasn't sure I wanted the dame to leave at all. "You were saying..."

She was still looking away from me. "I wanted to say sorry for what happened at the bar earlier. He - Mic - usually, isn't like that. I don't know what it is with the two of you. You dress alike, you should get along better."

I lifted her face with a finger to her chin. "What is it that dames see in guys like that anyway? In my line of work, I've seen it a thousand times before and it's never pretty, sister."

Her eyes glittered brightly in the dim room. She lifted her lips to my cheek and then without a word, left my apartment. The dame sure was a piece of work, I'll give her that much. She could have at least brought me some pie.

oxoxoxo

Cosmetics Department, Wal-Mart  
Washington

Together with the address I'd found the night before and Bud's information on the fact that the three lipstick shades were house brands of Wal-Mart, I made my way to the scene. I took the dame along with me because I needed the protection.

I spotted the make-up counter immediately. It was at the end of the aisle. On each side down the aisle, I could see sniper perfume-squirters, ready and primed to take down anyone fool enough to get within range. I turned to the dame, "Marine, cover me... I'm going in."

Finally, we made our way to the counter and it was closed. Frustration welled up inside me. Some days it just wasn't worth getting up in the morning.

I scanned the horizon. Where was the salesperson? I made as if to move to another counter - to the eye-shadow department. Suddenly, like a speeding mullet, Cindy the lipstick salesperson came sweeping to the counter. "Good day sir... ma'am. Could I interest you in some of our fine hypo-allergenic, non-animal-tested, fat-free, collagen-enhanced, cosmetic products?" she sang out loud.

Now, I've seen a lot of things in my life and this job has shown me things you don't want to know about. But this... this was too much, too cruel. Thankfully, the dame was as hard as I was. She took this starlet-wannabe-has been Cindy in her stride.

"I want to have a look at those three shades of lipstick please. That would be: Purple Passion, Orange Passion and Red Passion. Thank you." Cindy passed the three colors to the dame who confirmed that these were indeed the same shades found with the body.

"Do you remember if anyone bought all three of these colors lately?" I ventured, putting as much grit into my voice as a cosmetic-counter would allow.

"We-ell. Now that you mention it. I did find it a tad strange because usually our major movers are Magenta Passion and Burgundy Passion. But I guess it sorta suited the couple who bought them. Even though I thought they would be more interested in the 'Cheap Slut' line. Would you like to have a look?" she asked, best sales smile in place. It would have worked better if she had teeth.

"Er... maybe later. If you have Electric Puce. But what can you tell me about the couple you just mentioned?"

"She worked at the White House. I could tell because she had this big button badge that said 'I work at the White House'. The guy was famous. I can't really remember what for. I'm pretty sure it was actually for something he didn't do. Actually, you know what? I think he's here right now. In the building. He's signing books downstairs."

I looked at the dame and she understood immediately what I had in mind.

"No, Flyboy. Electric Puce is definitely not your color," she said sympathetically.

Damn.

oxoxoxo

Books Department, Wal-Mart  
Washington

It wasn't difficult to find our suspect. He sat behind a small table surrounded by a throbbing, seething mass of humanity. A mob of four people were vying for his attention. We walked past one of the displays of his books. I picked one up.

Boldly on the cover were splashed the words, "IT WASN'T ME" by O.J. Simpson. I felt a strange sense of déjà vu. This had all happened before. Then it dawned on me - I was here last week.

We fought our way through the crowd. It was larger now, there were five people. "Mr. Simpson, I'm from JAG and I need a moment of your time." I announced.

"Can't you see that I'm a little busy signing all these books right now?" he answered without looking up.

"Well, I'm sure you are. But I really need to talk to you about a murder." I persisted.

"Buy the book."

"No, not that one. This other murder. The one in the Rose Garden? The one with the Intern? Am I ringing any bells?" I asked.

"Buy the book. It's only $14.95."

"I think you know a lot more about this than you're letting on. I can tell you're avoiding the issue. But let me tell you this - I can be mean and I can be nasty. And I can be mean-nasty. You don't want that." My voice took on an edge.

"Buy the book. It's only $14.95. Buy it now and I will throw in a free glove."

I knew then that this was one sharp customer. I wasn't going to get anywhere with him today. But I also knew it was time to go to court. I had what I needed and I knew Electric Puce was too my color.

I just hoped that it wouldn't all mean more "trouble".

oxoxoxo

A Week Later  
JAG Courtroom, JAG Courthouse  
Washington

The courtroom was a circus. I could tell because they had to clear out the elephants and the performing llamas. It wasn't a pretty sight. And it definitely wasn't a pretty smell either. The cotton candy was a nice touch though.

The fan twirled slowly overhead. I found this distracting, especially since we have air-conditioning. Admiral Morris was presiding that day and this did not make things any easier for me. You would think that a hardboiled, seen-it-all, seaman could deal with this better. It's just that Morris reminded me a lot of myself, except for the moustache, the hair, the glasses, the age, our ranks, dress sense and overall disposition. Other than that, it was like looking into a mirror.

I looked over at the Defense table and there sat O.J. and his lawyers. They looked like a rough bunch. They looked like they could do serious damage and spit a mile afterwards. Best I could manage was a block and a half... wind-assisted.

The dame sat by my side. She looked composed, calm and damely enough to beat the band. I wish that I could concentrate on parts of the case as well as I could concentrate on parts of her. I just wish I knew for sure that she was innocent.

She leaned forward and placed a warm hand on my arm. I was glad she didn't have sweaty palms because those always leave stains and I hate that. "What are you thinking, Flyboy?" she asked softly.

"Oh, the usual. Nothing much," I answered flippantly.

"If anyone can get to the bottom of this, you can," she said trying to give me assurance. Maybe trying too hard. I wondered what her role was in all of this. Was she a mole, a stooge, a rat, a fink, a Republican?

"Prosecution will begin with its opening statements," said Admiral Morris. Just the way I would have done it. We are so much alike.

I stood up, easing the chair back. It hardly made a squeak. I had oiled it earlier.

I walked forward and started. "Before the end of this trial, I will prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that the unsexy victim found in the Rose Garden was murdered beyond a shadow of a doubt.

"It wasn't an accident that placed her body there. It wasn't a suicide. It might have been an accident that made her a White House intern. It might even have been suicide but this wasn't the case that night.

"She was murdered. Stabbed through the heart with a ballpoint pen. A pen from the White House souvenir shop. So, you might think it was an inside job. And it was, all those people at the Defense table have slept in the White House. That's as inside as you can get. Well, almost... but you don't want to know about the other way.

"This victim was an unfortunate... er... victim of circumstance. She was in the wrong Karaoke joint at the wrong time making fun of the singing abilities of the wrong people. Maybe it wasn't right of her to do this. Maybe it was even wrong. But that shouldn't have made her dead.

"I will prove to the court that the murderer is sitting in this courtroom today. And it is..." I paused, the fragmented clues swimming together in my head. I knew I had to make the accusation now.

"It is -" I pointed a finger at the person no one ever suspects, "The dame - Lt. Colonel Sarah MacKenzie."

Silence enveloped the courtroom. Admiral Morris broke it and refused to pay for the damage. "Colonel MacKenzie is your prosecution partner, Commander. Why on God's green earth would you think she is involved in any way, manner or form?"

I stopped to think and started nodding slowly. "Exactly. But it's always the dame in the end. I just thought we could save us some time by cutting straight to the chase... no?"

The dame stood up, "Objection. Prosecution is leading the court through a clichéd noir format. I propose that it be stricken off the record and that he be smacked upside the head and be allowed to continue - without the cliches."

I could just stand there all day looking at her. She sure was swell. And she had a point.

"It was someone who stood to profit from this murder. Someone who had everything to gain. Money, endorsements, book and movie deals, the whole enchilada. And I will prove all this beyond a shadow of a doubt by the end of this trial."

The Defense had made the serious mistake of putting their client on the stand. He was at my mercy now. And I didn't know the meaning of the word "now". What did it mean really? Like, right now - at this moment, or now - of this era? I had to look it up.

"Were you or were you not at the Tokyo Tequila Karaoke Bar two nights before the murder? Yes or no answers only please."

"Er... yes or no to was I or wasn't I?"

Oh... this character was slick. "Exactly," I answered. "And did you or did you not start a screaming match with the victim there over your song. Yes or no answers only please."

"Er... I guess."

"A-ha. You guess. Let the record show that the witness is guessing now." I could feel the tension mount. It was like a bead of sweat trickling up my spine.

I decided to pull out my ace. "Here are the three shades of lipstick found with the victim. Please put them on."

The Defense stood up immediately, "Objection! Those really don't match his skin tone."

Admiral Morris agreed, "Yes, but it is necessary for us to see how the suspect looked on the night of the murder. Objection overruled. Put the lipstick on please."

O.J. tried on the lipstick but it was obvious he wasn't going to co-operate. For one thing, he kept going outside the lines. "It won't fit, it won't fit," he kept repeating, while he was putting on the lipstick. That's probably why it wouldn't fit.

The leading counsel for the Defense - one Mr. Johnny Cochrane decided to re-examine the suspect.

"Now, Mr. Simpson. You've testified that you knew the victim."

"Yes, she went down to the karaoke place a lot. That night, I tried country-&-western for the first time. I - I never should have done that. She wouldn't stop laughing and sure, I got mad. But, I never killed the girl. She offered to help me with my karaoke. And I was going to give her a makeover. That's why we were at Wal-Mart. I have my book signing there so I get a store discount."

Cochrane produced a book and held it up. "Is this your book, Mr. Simpson?"

"Yes, buy the book now. It's only $14.95 and get a 50% discount on my new book 'IT WASN'T ME, EITHER'."

"So, would you say that you've made quite a killing, pardon the expression, out of these murders. I mean murder? You've got a book, you've signed the movie deals and you get a store discount. This doesn't look good, does it?" Cochrane's voice rose.

"Yeah. But you got the same deal and on top of that, you get paid to defend me." Simpson said haplessly.

This was when the clues came together. Cochrane did have the most to gain from this. Quite frankly, other than one over-sensational murder case and an appearance on some prime time television show on CBS, what else did he have going for him?

This was a dirtier scenario than I had bargained for when I first decided to take this case. The twists, the turns, the chicanes, it all led to this - basic human greed. And the need for good hair care. It always came down to these things.

"Objection!" I stood up. "Defense counsel is the murderer! Cochrane has the most to gain from this. He gets better deals than Simpson. And he gets paid for defense. He's been having a dry run. What better way to pep up his flagging career than with a high-profile murder case? And - and - and -"

"Yes, Commander," said Morris.

"And he smokes cigars and - and - and - is that Purple Passion you're wearing, Mr. Cochrane?"

"No! It's Orange Passion - gasp!" Cochrane gasped.

The next few minutes happened so quickly. Before I knew it, that dirty rat Cochrane had one arm around the dame and the other arm around the dame as well. I saw red. Actually it was more like orange.

He had the murder weapon tightly clasped against Mac. I had seen the damage a ballpoint pen could do and I wasn't willing to gamble with the dame's life.

"Look Cochrane, put down the pen. You won't be able to get away. Look around you. Just be reasonable, surrender, throw the dame to me and we can work this out, ok?" I tried to reason with him.

"It's too late for working this out. I could have been a contender. I could have been somebody. And what am I? I'm a lawyer. A down-on-his-luck, good-for-nothing mouthpiece. What's it all for?" he howled to the wind.

"Hey big boy, sometimes - life is its own reward," the dame drawled. She looked helpless but I would bet my bottom dollar, she was anything but.

"Like right about now, my blouse could pop right open," she said with a wiggle.

"Huh?" I said.

"Huh?" said Admiral Morris.

"Huh?" said O.J. Simpson.

"Goodie!" said Bud and most importantly...

"Huh?" said Cochrane.

This was all the distraction the dame needed. She elbowed him and he loosened his hold. She then landed a sweet mother of a right hook. And Cochrane never knew what hit him.

oxoxoxo

Rabb's office, JAG HQ  
Washington

I looked out the window. It was raining and as a result, it was wet. The case had been wrapped up nice and tight. In small packages. The type with little bows and ribbons. I should have felt better. I'd finally finished a case and it was going to stay finished.

Yet, there was a rumbling in me. And it wasn't the tacos I had for lunch. It was more than that. It was more than the guacamole dip I had with the nachos too.

I couldn't put my finger on it. Maybe it was the salad. I always knew those things were dangerous.

There was a knock on the door. It was a light knock but it still made the door fall off its hinges. And there, amidst the flying dust motes... stood the dame.

She sure was a sight for sore eyes. She'd obviously just come out of the rain. Droplets of water fell off her overcoat and onto what remained of my door. I had never seen anything more beautiful or dangerous. She reminded me of a jaguar or a leopard or a tyrannosaurus rex or some other exotic big cat.

"You know I'm gonna have to charge you for that," I said, indicating the ruined door.

"Put it on my tab, Sailor. Don't you wanna show a girl a good time?" she asked.

"Sure, where's the girl?"

She rolled her eyes. She sure could roll real well. "I'm the girl, Flyboy. So how's about it?"

"I dunno. I don't really want to bump into the Goo- I mean, Mic any more than I have to. You know how it goes. I'm an old-fashioned kinda guy. I like my drinks and my women just one way." I shrugged and moved back towards the window.

"... on the rocks?" she asked hesitantly.

I turned to face her and allowed myself a smile. "No, straight-up single shots. Sometimes maybe with a straw. But never with little pink umbrellas. I don't like to share, Sarah."

"Well, that's too bad. I'll see you around then, Sailor." She turned and left.

I watched her leave. The line of her legs, the curve of her hips, the sway of her walk. She called back over her shoulder, "And you don't have to share, Harmon."

What the hell - "Wait up Marine." I grabbed my coat and caught up with her. I put my arm around her waist and hugged her close.

"This could be the start of a beautiful relationship."

* * *

THE END


End file.
